Words

When my words lose their syllables to tiredness

and the silly mistakes begin on my typewriter

when I want to fall asleep and not wake anymore to the daily sadness

about the happenings in this world and the things that I can't prevent

then here and there a word starts to groom itself and quietly hums

and half a thought starts brushing up and looks for another

that momentarily was choking on something that it couldn't swallow

and now looks around

and takes the half thought by its hand and says: Come

And then some of the tired words fly

and some of the typos that laugh about themselves

with or without half or whole thoughts

from London's ghetto over sea and plains and mountains

again and again across to the same spot

And when you walk down the steps through your garden in the morning

and you pause and pay attention and look at them

you can see them rest or hear them flutter

a little cold and perhaps still a little misplaced

but always truly happy that they are with you